


In My Head

by ditheringmind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22401235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ditheringmind/pseuds/ditheringmind
Summary: Stiles could feel the air leave his lungs when Derek gracefully got up and walked across the room and up the spiral stairs. Wrong, everything was wrong. He was moving too slow. Like he was drifting, being pushed by waves, a force not his own.  Something deep inside Stiles gave a pulse; he felt a tingle run through his body, like static cracking through him. He moved to follow Derek with no thought, a magnet pulling him to the older man. He didn’t hear Scott annoyed voice call to him. He didn’t hear Lydia scream. He heard, he heard waves?
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 4
Kudos: 70





	In My Head

**Author's Note:**

> So this was written when I was in a dark place, I kind of wrote it like therapy. It has some very heavy topics here so please heed the tags. I had so much more planned for this story but my writing skills are just not there yet, it wasn't meant to end where it does but I need to like purge this from my system I guess. Anyway, thank you to any who read. oh yeah, also not beta read, all many, many mistakes are my own damn fault.

Derek sits on the plush softness of his sofa he was forced to buy. His eyes are slowly bouncing around the room, sliding off the occupants. Stiles to his right huddled under the fluffy blanket Cora had given him before she left. She had said she wanted him to have something to cuddle with. Scott sprawled to his left, relaxed with legs splayed open and arms stretched out over the flat back of the sofa.

They were talking through him, around him. Never to him, he wasn’t here; he wasn’t here. They were, they were here. Lydia poised gracefully in a chair with Kira perched on the armrest in front of the wall of windows. He wasn’t alone; he could reach out and touch, touch the warm skin, glide his lips across it bury his nose against the beating pulse. Alive, here. He wanted the honey gold eyes to see him. To slide his way; he wanted; he wanted the rosebud lips breathing his air. 

A mist, a fog thick and stifling swirled in his head. Each movement he tried to make was like moving against high waves, the ocean with its great greedy hands pulling him in, deeper and deeper. He could hear the pack through the waves. Not his pack, not his, no, his were dead. He killed them.

Derek stood, fixing his eyes on his bare feet the press of the fog pushing his head down he couldn’t raise it over the deep water of his mind.

Was he still real? Does he exist outside this swirling vortex? He walked up the stairs and down the hall, the waves catching and pulling at him, beating relentlessly against him, worthless, useless, coward, killer, monster. Just like the ocean tide coming and going the words never leaving, swelling his brain, clogging, never-ending.

Derek shed his clothes as he slowly made his way to his room, his claws ripping the man mad fibers from his skin till he was bare. He entered his private sanctum as naked as the day he came into this world.

He pulled the needle off his nightstand; he had never bothered to hide it. He had no one to hide it from; it had been there, out in the open for years daring anyone to see him, to stop him, to save him. He wanted to cut his skin open to let the inky darkness out; he wanted it to pool on the floor at his feet so he could run his fingers through it. He wanted to feel the slick wetness. He always healed too soon, trapping it in to fester and blacken, ever there swimming just under the surface. No matter how many times he cut into himself, he could never get it all out; he could never go deep enough. 

He let his body slid to the cold concrete floor at the foot of his unmade bed. The waves intensified inside, beating relentlessly against him. His hands clutched at his head, pulling at his hair. If he could crack it open to relieve the pressure if he could make the waves stop, stop for just a minute. He put the needle to skin and pushed down, letting his head roll back and rest on the edge of his bed. It burned, his blood was on fire. The pain gave him relief, it washed over him, and the waves receded. He could breathe again. This was right; this is what he deserved. 

He felt numb a distant prickle of fear washing over his body as the black vines crawled up the pale skin of his arm, the blackness taking over the blue of his veins just like the blue in his eyes had taken away the gold. He had taken a life. His choice had taken everything. He gave a watery laugh when he finally released his tears. The ocean broke over him, pulling him down, down, down. He went willingly.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stiles had stopped listening to Scott, letting his friend’s voice fade into the background, his focus on the wolf who sat next to him. Derek wasn’t looking at anything his head bowed. His skin so pale, so smooth under such dark scruff. He seemed unnaturally beautiful. He was so close, close enough to reach out and touch, to ghost his finger over the soft strands that covered his cheeks. He could almost feel it on the tips of his fingers. He brought them up to his own face to run down his smooth cheek. He wanted, he wanted, he had always wanted.

Stiles could feel the air leave his lungs when Derek gracefully got up and walked across the room and up the spiral stairs. Wrong, everything was wrong. He was moving too slow. Like he was drifting, being pushed by waves, a force not his own. Something deep inside Stiles gave a pulse; he felt a tingle run through his body, like static cracking through him. He moved to follow Derek with no thought, a magnet pulling him to the older man. He didn’t hear Scott's annoyed voice call to him. He didn’t hear Lydia scream. He heard, he heard waves?

Stiles canted his head towards the black spiral stairs. He had never before dared breach Derek’s private domain, but he feels a pull, a gentle tug from low at the most sensitive part of his belly, pulling him up, up. The waves are growing louder and more insistent. He covers his ears trying to block it. It needs to stop. It’s too much his head is going to splinter and break. The words beat against him. Worthless, useless, coward, killer, monster this isn’t his, it’s not him, like gravity forcing him down, down, he fights to stay on his feet, wobbling down the hall to reach the door that stands open, that stands between him and Derek. Derek, this is him, the waves are him, reaching and pulling, calling out for help, calling to Stiles. 

It stops so suddenly, the bonds pulling him down snap and he falls forward freed he runs the short distance to the open door, to Derek's lifeless figure slumped on the floor.  
” no, no, no.” his lips drip the words, they flow out of him as he cradles the limp wolf in his arms. Derek’s head lolling and the curtain of lashes parted to reveal glassy moss green orbs. 

The waves were a constant in Stiles head now, just like Derek’s blank stare. The wolf hadn’t moved in two days. He lay curled on his side, staring out the window, he was gone, gone, gone. The pack shifted about, begging and pleading with him. 

Deaton had said they got to him just in time, in time to keep the poison from his heart, in time to save his life. Too late, too late. Stiles knew they were years too late. Derek was gone, gone, gone.


End file.
